Chances are, you'll go your way and I'll go mine
by spiritdream
Summary: She dies in a little, spotless room in Naples when she agrees to take a slice of the cruel curse of seven. - Lal Mirch and Colonnello before the Arcobaleno curse. Rating for not-really-explicit sex and language.


"In the end, it's your decision," the man says, calm and collected, sitting behind the enormous ebony desk. Faint light streams through the blinds and glides over the slick, black surface, skips then crashes into the untouched glass of water standing on the table, and breaks into a million little jagged pieces of the colors of a rainbow train wreck. Lal's face is devoid of emotions when the man dismisses her with a slight nod, and her movements radiate fluid grace when she rises from the leather chair, stands straight and poised under the heavy weight of expectations and responsibility settling on her shoulders, wanting to bend her back and snap her spine in two. She salutes, then bows and takes her leave; the little click-click sounds her heels jab into the sparkling white marble floor echo and fade into silence while she walks down the empty corridor.

The sounds of the city hit her when she steps onto the street, irritated shouts and angry honking of cars like a slap of wet sheets on her cheeks. She slips into the black car waiting on the side, leaving the intimidating, white building standing tall and solid in the middle of the whirlwind crowd. Lal sits motionless in the car, knees pressed together and shoulders lax, hands relaxed in her lap, staring out the smoke-tinted windows, watching the streets pulse with life.

Soon, the cacophony of Naples morphs into the gentle waves of the Mediterranean See, its surface tinted a deep, rich blue instead of muddy green as they get farther and farther away from the city. She lifts her arm and presses her finger on a tiny little button wedged into the door, and the window slowly rolls down on her left. Lal glances up the clear, clear sky - there's no sign of clouds within a mile. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, tastes the warmth of the sun and the salt of the sea on her tongue.

In her mind, she can still see the man's eyes amidst the dozen blank, nameless faces, radiating kindness and understanding like he hadn't sentenced her to a slow, painful death just mere minutes ago. The mockery of choice is bitter resentment in the back of her throat.

It was never her decision to begin with.

She's a soldier. She serves.

(She dies in a little, spotless room in Naples when she agrees to take a slice of the cruel curse of seven.)

*

She calls ten minutes before the deadline, after one week has passed from when she stood before the Committee. Her answer is what they've expected and been waiting for, and she puts the phone down with a soft click. The painful, twisting throb she's felt in these seven days is now just a dull ache between her shoulder blades.

However is on the Committee has influence and connections, because when she goes to report to her superiors, they're already aware of her impending resignation. They don't question her decision or ask for her reasons - they're probably told not to do so - and Lal almost shudders in disgust that there's something powerful enough to reduce the Special Forces from vicious bloodhounds to whimpering lapdogs with only a snap of its fingers.

"It's a shame. You're one of our best," says Sauro, his tone aiming for carefully neutral, but masked regret and sadness hides and slips between the syllables and the words bite into Lal's side with razor sharp teeth. He's been her trainer since that rainy day that feels like a lifetime ago, when she first donned their uniform, only nineteen and head still cotton-filled with sacred ideas; has been her mentor through years of training and missions, success and friends dying on the field. She's more her parent than her father (who she didn't know) or her mother (who she only wishes she didn't know) and he's probably the only person in her life she doesn't want to disappoint.

"You'll be serving for another six months, until your resignation takes place," continues General Cesare. "As General Sauro said, you're one of our best soldiers, instructors and analysts. We want you to train one of our newly assembled raider units."

"Yes, Sir," she says without batting an eye. Rookies. Great. Although, she kind of expected this with her sudden plead for leave.

"We also want you to take interest in one of the qualified raiders and personally train him as your lieutenant."

Well. That's not entirely unexpected, but it's still surprising.

"I don't think that six months will be sufficient to train one raider from the new unit to later serve in my stead," she objects, because it's only the truth. She's not signing up for a mission impossible. They know she's as ruthless as she's deadly, and all the units that had her as their instructor can confirm that she has relatively high expectations. To train a complete rookie to be her lieutenant, with this deadline in mind, is a laughable objective. She's good, but she's no miracle worker.

"The candidate is not from the new unit. He's already been selected, and we're counting on you to train him within the best of your abilities. Consider this to be your last assignment."

And that's that.

*

Even before she meets her supposed lieutenant for the first time, she's already having doubts about the success of her mission. She knows the soldier she has to train, as it's pretty hard not to be aware of the young, promising raider radiating strength and confidence like some bright solar cell. He's climbing the rank ladder like the ground is burning below him, and most of his trainers file him under the usually empty category of Rising Talent with a lot of untapped potential.

Lal thinks her colleagues may be right in their assertions, but it doesn't mean the raider is cut out to be her lieutenant.

As she nears one of the little offices littering the end of the hallway, she hears a voice hiss in sympathy.

"You got Lal Mirch? Ouch, man. She's the best, but it's going to hurt. I really don't envy you."

The voice belongs to Amedeo, an explosives de-activator, one of her ex-trainees. Maybe she should ask about his progress, and keeping his best interest in mind, suggest a new training regime to his current squad leader. He should have been aware of her presence twenty meters away.

"And why is that?" comes the carefree laughter from the room and the deep, melodious timbre settles over Lal's senses like a blanket, makes her skin itch.

Amedeo wisely doesn't answer, though, and she kills any further conversation when she steps into the room.

Both men straighten when they see her.

"Ma'am," Amedeo greets her as his gaze flicks from her shoulder to the door in mild panic. It's a pity she doesn't have time for her ex-student now, Lal thinks sadly, and with a slight nod, she dismisses the nervous raider from the room. The door closes with a soft click, leaving Lal and her newest charge alone, and the two of them stare at each other for a few beats.

"Soldier," she starts, eyes still locked with his, "Upon General Cesare's insistence, I'll be responsible for your progress from now on. I expect your full cooperation and obedience while I'm your direct superior. You'll address me as Ma'am or Captain in the future. Questions?"

"No, Ma'am," he says, in a voice clear and deep, but Lal's not imagining the touch of smirk almost lingering in the corner of his mouth. Momentary irritation sparks to life somewhere in her stomach, and she swallows to quickly extinguish the tentative, weak flames before they could catch fire.

"Good. Follow me."

*

He's worse than she's expected. He's an adequate sniper but a horrible tactician, and it's not long before she recognizes that he lacks necessary field experience. He's a sad excuse in close combat - even though he has the required strength and agility, his attacks are weak and his defense leaks carelessness every second beat. She easily slips under his guard, sees his every flaw, sinks her claws into the soft flesh of his mistakes and rips him to shreds before he can even see her move.

She has him on his back in a flash, her long, ice-cold fingers pressing to his jugular with deadly intent. The raider's eyes are a little wild around the edges when he stares up at her from the ground, muscles locked and body taut like a bow, ready to snap from pent-up adrenaline.

In the future, he'll think twice about not taking her seriously.

"Soldier, I was told you've exceptional abilities. I'm rather disappointed. In the past two hours you've died approximately fifty-eight times."

He flashes her a half-sun slice of smile - one that catches her attention, draws her eyes and holds it, until she realizes they're standing and he's two steps closer than she's comfortable with.

"I guess it's a new record," he says with a bashful shrug, but his posture radiates a hint of wariness after their little power play. "That was kind of unexpected, though."

She lifts a thin eyebrow in question, and it takes a considerable effort to keep the sarcasm out of her tone when she answers. "Because the battlefield and your enemies are known to be predictable. If you believe that, soldier, you'll set further records in ignorance, stupidity, and on the who fell faster on a mission tally."

"Hey, I'm not that bad!" Warm laughter glides down Lal's spine like sweat after a good work-out session, muscles stretched and sore, trembling in tired aftershocks. She shivers from the phantom wetness climbing down her skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. "Let's try this again."

He sheds attitudes quicker than a stripper does clothes, deadly calculation replacing cheerfulness and camaraderie when he slides into his stance. His resolution vibrates in the air between them and leaves tiny little spark-bites on Lal's fingertips. The sensation makes her breath hitch.

"Dead men can't try again, soldier," she says, turning on her heels. "Dismissed."

She only takes three steps when he catches up with her.

"Colonnello. I'm honored to be trained as your lieutenant," he starts, peering down at her, eyes clear and friendly with honest curiosity. "Ma'am," he adds hastily when she doesn't react.

"_Soldier,_" she emphasizes, but doesn't stop, doesn't even spare him a glance while she answers, "you're nothing more than a rookie raider. It's a miracle you've survived until now with the skills and experience you possess. I refuse to call you anything but what you are, and I'm even starting to doubt your capabilities on following basic commands," she bites out, her patience thinning to flimsy cords.

His indignant _Hey!_ is still ringing in her ears when she's reporting to her superiors a few hours later.

*

Colonnello's breath leaves him in a painful moan when his shoulders hit the dirty ground. Lal's long ago lost count on how many that makes on their session today.

"It's surprising how much time I spend lying on my back when I'm with you," he says between quick gulps of air, chest rising and face shining with sweat. "If you don't pay attention to them, your rookie raider unit is going to die of jealousy, Captain."

"Shut up," she snaps, but her voice is winded and lacks heat behind the syllables. Her punch still makes Colonnello hiss and curl in on himself, arms going to cradle his stomach protectively. Some of his bangs have escaped from his bandana and now cling to his forehead in sandy-colored locks. He's lying on his side, trying get his breathing back to normal and Lal would have kicked him back to his feet already if she weren't kneeling on the ground herself.

It's been three months and he's getting better, but he's still nowhere near the level Lal can even consider him filling in for her. Time is ticking, and the icy fingers of death curl around her wrists, freezing her skin and veins, crushing her bones and tugging her below the ground with a force she knows she can't struggle against for long.

Colonnello is looking at her behind half-shut lashes, his gaze lazily following one unruly lock of her hair, free from the loose ponytail, cascading down her back; and Lal's not surprised to feel the now familiar, dull pang flutter in her stomach under his close scrutiny.

He's always watching her, eyes expressive and stare feverish hot, burning her skin and stripping her bare, shattering her carefully crafted masks one by one, more efficiently than crossfire. He never lets himself be discouraged by her repetitive rebuffs, and Lal has more than enough on her plate to deal with to keep him constantly at arm's length. He's like a persistent leach, crawling under the folds of her clothes and latching onto her skin, unnoticed, greedily sucking her blood along with her reluctance. They've developed a sort of camaraderie Lal rarely allows herself to have, tired of pushing him away when she has so little time left. He's always present at the edge of her consciousness, shimmering with steady confidence and radiating determination, helping to soothe her nerves, giving her something to focus on. Lal sometimes wonders how someone so bright and easy as light can wash away her doubts like cold rainstorm does on a midsummer afternoon.

He's not ruthless enough to take over from her, skin paper-thin from lack of experience and eyes shadowed with brilliant ideals. She knows that with time, the chill of failed missions will make his skin thicker, and the death of his comrades will make the lights dim, but sadly, it's time they don't have.

"Debriefing starts at 2.00. Prepare for your next mission, soldier," she sighs while she rises to her feet.

"Yes, Ma'am!"

*

It's his first mission as squad leader, and he's 23 hours late from their meet-up. Lal has to move with the rest of her men in 56 minutes to continue with their mission, and if he doesn't show up by then, she has to leave him and his squad behind. They have no second chance.

With every passing minute, the grip of anxiety around her heart becomes just a little tighter, her skin becomes just a little colder. She locks her muscles against the urge to abandon her post, clenches her teeth against the scream that wants to rip from her throat, raw and bleeding helplessness.

The thought brushes against her consciousness that maybe, he wasn't ready to lead a team on his own. Not yet, maybe a little later, after he's successfully completed five more under her command, maybe, _maybe_, maybe not. She has to push, partly because it's not her style to be lenient, let her charges sluggishly trot towards their goals when they can just as well jump and run; but mostly because the hangman is coming down from the gallows, steps matching to the ominous ticking of a clock in the background.

Her shoulders tense and her numb fingers almost twitch on the trigger when she hears a faint, phantom whish-whoosh sound. Adrenaline is pulsing like blood in her veins, makes her skin tighten with rising anticipation. A few, painfully long beats later the telltale sign comes, clear and unmistakable, and Lal watches in slow motion as Colonnello and his squad emerge from the forest, cautious and weary but alive. She lets out a long, long breath and finally moves, signaling for her team to do the same.

"Squad Delta reporting," Colonnello says when he stops before Lal, his cheeks smeared with dirt and blood, his clothes torn and bandana missing. "Mission is completed without serious casualties. We're ready for step four."

Lal doesn't trust herself to say anything, because she'll either shout and kill him herself for making her worry like that, or hug him and thank him for bringing his team back alive. She nods, swallows desperation, relief and a thousand other emotions that suddenly flood her mouth, almost making her choke.

They complete the mission without further complications, and she only chews him out when they're back in their base, safe and shielded from the horrors of the last few days.

"Why did you tell them that I've failed? The mission was a success, and they're really impressed with our record," he hisses after Lal makes her report, when they're far enough to be overheard even by random passerby soldiers. His voice is tinted with suppressed anger, dark and vicious like a savage snap of a leather whip on bare, wet skin. Lal actually flinches from his tone, but her fury is like blazing fire to his steady flame when she turns to him.

"Because you're a fucking idiot who can't follow orders to save his life. You decided to act on your own, based on your momentary observations and led your team to unnecessary danger by abandoning the plan, risking not only their lives but the success of the whole mission. We could have failed. We could have died. We could have let that crucial information land in enemy hands."

"But we didn't," he interrupts, voice rising in tandem with hers, though the heat in his is slowly dying out. "The mission was a success, we came back with more than we've planned to get, and all of us are alive."

"Yes. But this doesn't change the fact that you went against my direct orders and endangered the mission. You're a soldier. You serve. And you've failed."

Silence settles over them while they stare at each other, air vibrating while everything stands still, moment frozen over their crystallized breathing. Colonnello's eyes are cold and unreadable while Lal's swirl in a jumble of clashing colors. A few beats later Colonnello's shoulders relax from their tight set and he flashes her that annoying, familiar half-smirk she so detests.

"Captain, I'm touched you're so worried. But don't be, because I'm not leaving you until you've acknowledge me as your lieutenant. And maybe not even after that, because I'd hate to make you sad," he says, amusement softening his eyes around the edges.

She blinks, heat extinguished in a flash that leaves her limbs tired and trembling, and her heart an empty mess. His gaze tells more than she's ready to deal with, queasy and dizzy from days of constant rollercoaster. All she wants is to run and collapse somewhere quiet to collect tattered pieces of her control from the ground around her feet.

Even after these months, he's not fast enough to block her right hook, and she takes a little measure of comfort from his surprised yell.

*

The light breeze brushes against her hat and caresses her face, tugs playfully at her locks as she leans against the white fence of the second floor balcony. The garden is bathed in the warm glow of sunlight, brilliant green and full of life. The atmosphere here is always peaceful and tranquil, and for once Lal's almost glad for the unexpected call she received a few days ago.

She hears the soft glides of footsteps behind her and she knows the sound is deliberate - if the one joining her didn't want to be heard, she wouldn't be able to detect his movements. The rich smell of coffee tickles her senses before he comes to a stop next to her, his elegant and impossibly long fingers carefully holding a steaming cup. His suit is crisp and spotless like always, hugging his frame like second skin, and Lal fingers the cuffs of her own uniform. She appreciates the sentiment of a fellow professional.

They're both loyal lapdogs, him to the mafia and her to the military, full of snarls and bites, serving their bosses until death and beyond. She wonders whether he feels just as frustrated and powerless over the situation as her, when the carefully attained control he's gained over the years slips through his fingers faster than quicksilver. Whether he feels empty and weary, confused and angry to see everything he's achieved soon vanish like feeble memory in a child's mind.

"How is your little puppy? Still wagging his tail at your every glance?" he asks after he takes a sip from his cup.

"Still clumsy, but at least he's learned to bark," she sighs. "And he's not mine."

"Could have fooled me." He doesn't even try to mask the amusement in his voice, and she fights against the urge to roll her eyes.

"He's too young and inexperienced, but those he can overcome with time," she elaborates after a few beats. "He's too emotional for the job, too soft. It'll crush and destroy him in the long run."

She's secretly glad she won't stick around for long enough to see his eyes harden and his straight, broad back bend under the weight of responsibility and guilt. But then, if she stayed, he wouldn't have to take her post in the first place.

"Seems to me like you're a set," he comments nonchalantly, and she laughs a little breathless sound because deep, deep down she fears he might be right.

His cup is empty and the sunlight has long jumped to the large window on her right when she decides to break the comfortable silence between them.

"Reborn, do you think it's worth it?"

If her question takes him by surprise, he doesn't show it.

"The term _worth_ is relative, and the meaning depends on the context in which it's used," he says finally. "In this case, it's not our job to decide what it means."

And he's right, she thinks, swallowing.

They're soldiers. They serve.

(She's signed her death months ago in her clear, precise handwriting; though sometimes she wishes she could burn that sheet to scorched, black little ashes, carried away by the wind.)

*

Her fingers sink into sliced muscles and torn flesh as she tries to stop the bleeding, but the red liquid pulsing with life keeps escaping her hands and gushes out in a steady flow, beat by beat, breath by breath.

The mission was supposed to be simple, one of the easiest they've had in a while. But then things didn't go as planned (as always, as _always_ when he's involved, she reminds herself almost hysterically) and now she's kneeling over Colonnello's body quickly draining from life, trying to patch up the wound on his side. Her first-aid knowledge is adequate at best considering wounds like this, but she forces herself to remain calm and detached with the iron fist of her will. Her first-aid kit is lying by her side while she's steadily working on the wound, getting the bleeding to slow, start cutting, sewing and disinfecting in a constant, repetitive order. Time passes and her nerves are rubbed raw with sandpaper when she cleans the now closed wound for the last time. Colonnello's breathing is shallow, but at least he's still breathing, and Lal's arms tremble as her palms strain against the ground, trying to keep her body from collapsing.

She stands guard and monitors his condition while trying to find out where they are and where their camp is, watches the spike of fever climb his limbs and soon wreck his frame even in sleep.

"Drink," she whispers when he wakes, and carefully holds his head along with the bottle while he does.

"Thanks," he coughs, the sound raspy and laced with pain. "S'rry I fuck'd up."

"No," she shakes her head, because this time it's not his fault. "They've got us from the left, you couldn't have done anything to prevent it. We're fast, but they're even faster."

"Huh," he blinks up at her, cheeks flushed and shining with sweat, eyes glazed with delirium. "You know, I've always wanted to impress you. But I don't think I'm very manly right now."

"Don't worry, I don't think you're very manly most of the time," she assures him with a lie while she helps him to a sitting position. "We need to move. Try to stay awake because I'm not dragging your unconscious body all the way back to the camp."

"Careful with the wounded, hey," he wheezes when they stand, the arm that's not thrown around her shoulders clutching his side.

"Stop being a baby," she hisses back, because conversation seems to help with keeping him awake. Fear is making her nauseous, but she keeps her panic at bay while they make their way to where she _thinks_ their camp is located.

Colonnello's talking about anything and everything he thinks about, fever and pain making him lose what little inhibition and control he had in the first place. At other times, she would have pummeled him to death for half of his comments already, but now she keeps their banter up to ignore her own injuries and exhaustion.

"Lal, hey, you should wear your official uniform more often," he says, her name rolling off his tongue with ease and familiarity. "You know the one for business and ceremonies. The brown skirt one. It makes you look less of a military trainer and more of a woman."

She snorts.

"No, hey, really. I like your legs. They're long and shapely and lean. You should wear skirts more often, but I can't say that because you'll kill me," he emphasizes with a sort of seriousness he rarely displays, and she's glad he can't see the blush spreading across her cheeks.

"If we get out of this alive, I'll wear even less," she murmurs and he laughs without a sound.

"I'm going to hold you to that."

"Shut up."

She's glad he won't remember much of their conversation. Or even if he does, she can still claim it's only one of his fever induced hallucinations anyway.

She doesn't remember much of their route either, mind numb and body long ago moving on autopilot. When eons pass and she finally, finally reaches their camp, relief further weakening her already trembling legs, she chokes on her tears. Medics take the unconscious Colonnello from her death grip and some of them immediately start tending to her, but she weakly slaps their hands away.

"My lieutenant is badly injured, he needs your help."

"Captain, you're injured as well. Please let us do our job."

"No, he needs-" she protests, feebly shaking her head, but the movement makes the world spin around her dangerously. She thinks she feels the sting of a needle on her arm, but maybe it's just her imagination. The ground tilts and the sky lowers, and she remembers nothing more.

*

She's sitting in front of the merrily cracking fire, far enough to be seen but still close enough to hear the faint echoes of drunken shouts and garbled singing. They're celebrating their recent victory over a strategically crucial mission that can easily tip their side later to ultimately winning the war. As her units played some of the most vital parts of the operation, they're probably the loudest in the rowdy bunch. She lets them enjoy the taste of their success, though, because they've deserved it.

The alcohol sloshing in her veins makes her body weight less than a feather, and proud swells so big in her chest she fears she'll burst from the crushing pressure.

She thinks this day is not so bad as her last to have.

There's some not-so-quiet shuffling mixed with some swearing behind her, and she rolls her eyes when Colonnello plops down next to her on the ground.

"Graceful as ever," she comments dryly, taking a swing from her rapidly draining bottle.

"Ladylike as always," he grins, then quickly lifts up a full bottle, shaking it defensively. "Hey, I come bearing gifts, no punching!" he laughs as she aims in his general direction.

"Won't your admirers miss you?"

"Nah, they're probably too out of it to notice I'm gone," he shrugs. "And I can't let a lady drink alone."

"I thought I wasn't a lady in your book."

"That's not what I've said, hey!"

In the past few weeks, recovering from their injuries and then getting thrown back onto the field without missing a beat made Lal mellower and a lot less cautious when dealing with Colonnello. Her defenses are almost completely gone when she's around him. She's being slowly dissected and carefully consumed, but now, under the marvelously relaxing effect of countless shots, it doesn't seem to be that bad of a prospect.

They toast, then drink and toast some more, talking and laughing like they're nothing more than old friends having a good time together. Lal thinks she's going to miss this come tomorrow.

He's watching her again, with that penetrating and scorching gaze she hates to feel on her skin. But unlike before, now she stares right back at him, acknowledging the things both of them refuse to say. His eyes darken and her breath hitches, heart beating staccato against her ribs.

"Hey, I hope you won't kill me for this," he sighs as he moves, one arm lifting and cradling the back of her neck, pulling her closer while he leans in, and she blinks when his lips brush against hers. She's too beats off, but she punches him on principle anyway.

The momentum tips him backwards and he falls with a winded huff, sprawled on his back in front of her. She crawls over his body, every shift and stretch of her muscles deliberate, before she bends her head and kisses him.

There's no hesitation when his mouth opens under hers and she tastes him, no tentativeness when her tongue glides over his. It's hot and wet, warm and messy, full of want and heat. His hands come to rest on her hips when she shifts her weight and settles more fully over him, the inside of her thighs teasingly brushing against his bare sides where his shirt has ridden up from his fall. Her lips wander to his jaw, following the arch of bone under the salty taste of his skin, and he tilts his head to give her better access when she reaches his ear.

"I knew you liked me on my back," he says smugly, then shudders, fingers momentarily flexing and knees jerking when she bites down on the rapidly beating pulse on his neck.

"Shut up," she says, breathing on the abused flesh and licking the reddening skin. Her fingers tug at his bandana and comb through his hair, tilting his head for another kiss.

"Yes, Ma'am," he laughs into her mouth while his hands wander over her back, pulling her closer, hugging her tighter to his chest.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur, and it's only a few things she can remember with mirror-sharp quality later on. The flexing of his stomach when her fingers brush that sensitive patch of skin while she sinks down on him slowly, the pain from his nails that leave tiny half-moon imprints on her hips as she teases him. The strength of his arm when he pulls her head back to lick along the length of her throat, her nipples brushing against his chest while she arches her back to feel more of him inside her. His hot breath brushing against her ear, and his trembling kisses on her left shoulder, his groan when she rakes her nails down his back, slick and slippery from perspiration.

They're lying on their sides next to the flickering fire, his chest molded to her back, his arms hugging her loosely. He's drawn patterns over her skin with his fingers for what seemed like hours, tentative words and secret wishes neither of them will ever say. He's fallen asleep not so long ago, his breathing steady and deep, soothing, but Lal feels too vulnerable to follow him just now. She selfishly wants to savor every passing moment, giving her strength and peace, remember it in her last hours.

Before the break of dawn, she slips from his embrace and takes a few minutes to watch his face, calm and looking even younger in his sleep. She hopes he won't take her sudden departure too hard, but it'll be better for the both of them if he doesn't know where she goes and what she has to do.

She takes a warm, cleansing shower and looks over her body in the mirror, studying her curves and muscles, seeing every ancient scar and the faded, recent marks of teeth mapping her skin. She carefully commits every line to memory, and by the time she smoothes down the front of her skirt with nimble fingers, her eyes are chilled, her skin is ice-cold and her muscles are frozen stiff. Rigor mortis has set in.

*

The first few months are the hardest to deal with, but everything gets easier with time. She's still not completely comfortable with her new body (and she doubts she'll ever be) when the leader of the _Consulenza Esterna Della Famiglia_ of the Vongola approaches her with an offer. She says yes, because she doesn't want to drift along her second chance at life without a purpose.

She's a soldier. She serves.

(She chooses to live on a desolated mountain, surrounded by bleak rocks from all sides when she makes a promise with the one who chose to take her place.)

*


End file.
